One on one
by SwordStitcher
Summary: Is Dead Switch actually opening up to the staff of Arkham Asylum? Maybe. Will anyone ever know about it? No.


A/N: Bark, bark, bark? [What is this?]

It's late, it's not funny, it's going up anyway. _Goodnight!_

* * *

'Deborah, they tell me that you've been difficult lately, do you have a reason for this?'

Therapy sessions. Therapy was boring, especially one on one therapy.

Switch sighed and shifted on the chair. One leg looped over the knee of another, more in comfort than elegance. There was no such luck with her hands; they were firmly shackled to the chair after her last little outburst and the resulting death threats.

'I'm bored Whistler.'

'That's _Doctor_ Whistler.' The psychologist replied sharply but she sensed hope in the air. Normally, Patient two, six, zero, zero, four also known as Dead Switch was loathe to discuss anything serious during their sessions. In fact, until recently, she delighted in torturing Gretchen Whistler with sarcasm and scathing retort.

'Would you care to explain why exactly you're bored, Deborah?'

Switch sighed, a look of suffering evident on her face. 'I'm not allowed near computers or books, I'm not allowed writing implements after-'

'After you stabbed Doctor Richards' eye out. I remember.' Whistler conceded.

'-and I'm banned from having any contact with Edward Nigma.' Switch replied dryly. '_Why_ you all think I want to socialize with him in the first place is beyond me-'

'Why _do_ you socialize with Edward Nigma?' Whistler jumped on the question before Switch could change topics.

'Why? _Why?!_ Is _why _all you people care about?' The leg started bouncing up and down in rapid succession. If Whistler had known as much about Deborah Swain as her contemporary, now sporting an eye-patch, she would have been forewarned to her habits of impatience. Waiting made Switch jittery.

'Of course not Deborah, some of us still do care for our patients. We want to help you. We want you to get better.'

'But I have to open up first?' The leg jiggling became more intense.

'Yes, Deborah.' Whistler encouraged. 'All things require an open dialogue.'

'I'm sure you'd love to poke around in my head. Ask me about my childhood.' Switch sighed heavily. 'It was normal you know.'

'We know that, Deborah, we want to know about Basil Karlo.'

Switch remained silent for so long, Whistler thought she'd gone catatonic, til she noted that that the jiggling of her leg had increased tenfold and now the metal around her ankle was ticking softly against the leg of the chair. 'Lets not.' She finally spoke. 'I want to talk about my work.'

'By all means!' It wasn't quite the incident that gave Deborah such a psychotic break that her personality shifted overnight, but they could work their way up there. Dead Switch was notorious about her refusal to talk about Clayface. Almost as notorious about it as she was about refusing to answer the questions of psychologists.

Whistler was given to understand she was fully cooperative if somewhat paranoid up until she was arrested with Edward Nigma. Almost overnight she became argumentative, slandering and cryptic in her responses.

It was rather hoped that by limiting her exposure to The Riddler that she would eventually open up; perhaps that was a prudent response, because now she _was._

'I am basically a glorified dog, you know. When Riddler says bark I say "Sausages".'

'And how does that make you feel?' It was absolutely a psychiatrists question because no matter what the answer, it could always be linked back to Freud's Oedipus complex.

'Like I should ask for a new squeaky toy?'

Ohkay. Gretchen Whistler wasn't going to tie that to Freud's Oedipus complex at all.

'You feel undervalued?'

'Underappreciated, underwhelmed, under pressure most of the time.' Switch rattled off. 'They think it's just as easy as it sounds, you know? "Get me access to the Gotham First Bank's computers, Dead Switch!" "I need a few pounds of highly restricted explosives, Switch!" "Where's my breakfast burrito at midnight, Switch?!" It's never that simple.' She grumbled.

'Then the question becomes, Deborah, why do you continue to be used by him?' Whistler struck in again, pen poised to take notes, despite the interview being taped.

'Well…' Switch faltered in her diatribe of Edward's worst faults. 'He was kind of the only person in this hellhole who saw value, you know? Joker tried to blow me up, Clayface…Clayface happened. He kind of taught me everything I ever needed to know.'

'Like what, Deborah? What was the first thing he taught you?'

'I remember….I remember way back at the start he said to me that the key to a successful scheme wasn't the plan, or the execution, or even the method. It was the _distraction_.'

The second that statement had left her devious mouth, the floor trembled and dust rained down on the tiny office. Whistler's door flung open, which allowed tendrils of thick grey smoke into the office. Edward Nigma was once again dressed in his favourite suit and seemed to be almost spitting with rage, probably because he'd had to look for her.

'What the hell are you doing?'

'My mandatory psychiatric evaluation, boss!'

'Well come on! I haven't got all day and I'll leave you if you slow me down.'

She freed her hands within seconds and sprang to her feet as the horrified Whistler cowered behind her desk.

'Come.' Nigma stalked from the room as she rubbed the feeling into her hands.

'Bark, bark, bark.' She muttered distractedly. 'See you next month, Whistler!'

They were out of the door in seconds, but Gretchen waited until she heard the guards in the doorway before she pulled herself up from the footwell.

Sometimes, working at Arkham was the worst thing she'd ever agreed to do and sometimes, very rarely, it resulted in a breakthrough. How much money would the tabloids pay for an unedited account of The Riddler by one of his closest henchmen? She really did need a new car and anything helped pay off that mortgage.

She reached for the tape recorder only to find it empty. Dead Switch had taken the recording before skipping out of the door.

No tape, no money. No money, no new car.

'What are you waiting for?!' She shrieked. 'The inmates are escaping!'


End file.
